Monday, June 30, 2008
Cross Clark Off Veep List
The idea of Obama being asked to defend the comments of a VP choice running up to the election would just not fly. While General Clark was looking like a long shot anyway, the corner Obama finds himself painted into pretty musch seals the deal.
Clark provided some attractive features too: a General, former Pesidential candidate and a supporter of Hillary Clinton.
Obama’s defense of McCain’s service is both consistent with his position throughout the campaign and his only realistic course. Joining with Clark’s assessment would have dropped Obama squarely into the category of ‘flip-flopper’; and the worst possible kind at that. In a country hyper-sensitive of military service and the place it holds in our national self esteem, a non-veteran attacking or so much as analyzing the military service of a veteran is well outside our collective comfort zone. I suspect that the McCain camp is praying to bronze statues of Ronald Reagan and the alleged soul of Karl Rove that Obama makes such a mistake.
Apparently one has to have served on a swift boat in Vietnam to effectively criticize the military service of another. Wesley Clark is a retired General. A General! The swift boat clowns who steered John Kerry’s campaign into the rocks in 2004 delivered the dry cleaning to Generals like Clark. If anyone has a place to critique the preparation that combat service provides, it’s this guy.
Of course the fact of the matter is; Clark is right. McCain’s service alone; or the service of any other soldier does not prepare him for the world’s highest office. Clearly, McCain’s time in the US Senate has better prepared him for the job. But the issue and the opportunity here is that military service and the military as a whole is a sensitive and agitating issue with right leaning voters and the Republicans recognize it.
Expect the McCain camp to keep this alive over the next couple days, generically tying “the Democrats” (rather than General Clark) to this issue. In the end, Clark’s service could be the neutralizer with this issue and everything military. None of us have rank on the guy including Captain McCain.
Emory Griffith Jr. July 25, 1942 - June 30, 2008
.jpg)
I am Mickey Griffith, Emory’s oldest biological son. If you count the many non-biological sons of my father’s, I would fall somewhere in the middle. My brother Chris and I were just two of about three hundred sons that my father played some part in raising for at least a summer.
Following in his own father’s footsteps, my dad was a baseball coach and manager; stalking the dugouts of West Virginia and west central Florida like a hybrid of Billy Martin and Casey Stengel. His teams were not usually stocked with the elite, but they won and were fundamentally sound. He seemed proud of the fact that he attracted the strays and castoffs of the community; often the boys who did not make their first teams of choice or perhaps missed the deadline to sign up. It seemed that dad’s teams always had one more spot for one more boy.
He loved the underdog kid. Much like his beloved Dodgers, he had a huge spot in his heart for the kid who just worked his butt off despite being a little too short or too slow or had a habit of finding trouble. These were the kids he coveted and attracted. Once in uniform, these boys became his sons, and he set out in an effort to impact their lives. I would be honored today to represent these boys and men in my remarks. Today, I speak for Tom Long and Jack Langmaack. Tate Whatley and Sean Ray. Cornbread, Hard Castle, Sarge and Wrong Ball.
If you met my father, you were assigned a nickname. The great thing is that it often took him a few days to get a fair evaluation of what made you who you were. He never grabbed these names out of the sky. My nickname was “Full Pack”. When I pitched my dad was often stressed into smoking an entire pack of cigarettes during the course of the game. Naturally, when my younger brother came along, despite the fact that he was not a pitcher, he was to called, “Half Pack.” This family connection was very important and real to my dad. In a sense, it identified his purpose. He created a family every summer and freely and lovingly added to it when need be. He honored and was honored by the commitment to his way and his team by his players. As a player – not a son, I can say that I never played for a better and more caring coach in my life.
I also never played for a coach more skilled and astute at embarrassing his entire team during the course of a game or season. His rants and tirades were legendary and almost cartoon in nature. I often wondered if he saw a clip of Earl Weaver or Billy Martin on the news in the morning and set out to top them that evening.
The only book I ever saw my dad read multiple times was Roger Kahn’s ‘The Boys of Summer’, a wonderful and beautiful chronicle of his 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers. My first exposure to Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey was through my dad. He so loved the men and the sentimentality of that team. I think he dreamed that he was one of the boys of summer. He could so identify with their cycle of falling just short year after year, and he dreamed of the success of finally beating the odds and coming out on top just once.
He also loved the old west. If an old western were on television, he would find it. He certainly had already seen it, but he would still sit and ride those trails and frequent those saloons along with the likes of John Wayne and Gary Cooper. If I close my eyes I can see him sitting in his recliner with a black and white western on TV, a folding try table in front of him. He has just completed the crossword puzzle in the ‘TV Guide’ and is now tweaking the third version of his first college football top twenty-five. There is an ashtray to his right and sweating plastic cup full of RC cola to his left.
Besides my love of baseball, my dad also passed along a love and reverence of the American system of government. He loved the electoral process and took very seriously his responsibility to vote and monitor the political process. Make no mistake about it; my dad was a true blue Democrat. But his love and respect for his country and the American experience trumped any partisan positions or issues.
When I was twelve years old and visiting West Virginia in the summer of 1981, the country's air traffic controllers went out on strike. President Reagan took to the air waves after a few weeks of negotiating with the union had failed to net an agreement, and fired all of the striking workers. At twelve, with the perspective of a garden beetle I called the President a name of some sort – no idea what I said specifically. And though I’m sure my dad agreed with my outrage, he defended President Reagan and demanded that no matter how I feel about an issue, there is a respect that is incumbent with the country’s highest office. This edict has been strenuously tested over the last eight years, and I have violated it many, many times. Yet every time I do, whether in my mind or with my words, I hear my father.
I spent most every summer with my father shortly after my parents divorced. Nearly every significant memory I have with him occurred in the heat and humidity of June, July or August. I will forever see him in summer. After all, he was born in summer. The game that excited, exhilarated and broke his heart was played in summer. His first son was born in summer. And now fittingly, he leaves us in summer.
So here we are, each of us, whether here or not – whether we even know he has left us, to say goodbye to Emory Griffith, Jr. – ‘Little Emory’ (he hated that!) Father, son, brother, grandfather, uncle, coach. And so let us all on this tenth day of summer, in the midst of a pennant race and a historic Presidential election, in the middle of the old west blow a kiss goodbye to this sweet and salty misguided angel and one of the original boys of summer.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Fade to Black (Update 7)
My aunt hosted a large family dinner at her home last night. While it was a wonderful time of connection, stories and tears it was also missing my dad. We all talked about the wonderful and colorful stories he told so well, yet him not being there to insist on their truth and tell new ones felt foreign. Having this dinner without him seemed just out of order I guess. Several times I thought I saw him out of the corner of my eye.
Earlier in the day I went with my brother, uncle and aunt to my father’s apartment to clean it out. That really felt out of order! Sorting through the belongings of someone and cleaning their home as if they’re already gone left me feeling strange.
My dad looked the best he has at any point over the last few weeks when we saw him yesterday evening at about 6:30pm. His hair was clean and combed nicely and his skin was soft and smooth. The bruises on his hands from the many IVs had faded and were almost gone. He was warm and actually looked cozy under his favorite blanket. Gifts from grandchildren and nephews and nieces were everywhere.
There were a couple baseballs signed by children who were struggling to make sense of what was going on. Their innocent faces and questions through this time have been beyond precious. Balancing eternity and death and the weight of it all takes time to penetrate their minds. It seemed confusing to some of them to see their parents and uncles and aunts struggling so mightily with their emotions.
The Nashville contingency of the family had made plans to head back home this morning. The original plan was for them to go by the hospital one more time before hitting the road. The left at about 8:30am, but decided to skip the visit and head east toward Tennessee. At a little after 9:30 a nurse from the ICU called to tell us that my dad’s vital signs were showing signs of early shutdown. His blood pressure dipped as did the oxygen level in his lungs. We were getting dressed to head into the hospital anyway, but this call kicked us into high gear. The Nashville contingency turned around on the interstate without exiting and headed back to the hospital too.
Fifteen minutes later my father’s doctor called from home. He shared the same information and suggested that today would probably be the day. Before we hung up, he said, “I may not see you again, but I wanted to thank you for your courage and the manner with which you interacted with me. I’ll honestly miss you.” I was so touched. I knew that we had developed a very nice working relationship and mutual understanding, but it seems that I had some impact on him too. Some of my family members were critical of his style and communication, but I know that he honored my dad as much as any of us. He gave him his best despite my father fighting him hard along the way – same as any of us. Above all, he restored dignity to my dad in his final days and hours. He made it so that we could spend some special time with him as he honored dad’s wishes. I may be alone in my family, but I will always be thankful to Dr. John Metcalf.
When we got to his room my dad still looked good. I rubbed his arm and squeezed his hand. His breaths had slowed to short and shallow. All the numbers on the monitors looked askew and out of place. Small numbers were where big numbers should be and alarms rang out off and on as if someone was leaning on the controls.
After a few minutes at my dad’s side, I felt the urge to get alone again. The noise of the competing voices and elevating volume levels was wearing on me in conjunction with everything else. I took off my gown and slipped out of the room. I found a small waiting area near the ICU waiting room. The lights were off and it was cool and empty. I sat down and pulled out my iPod again. I sat in the dark and played music that reminded me of my father. This move to the black waiting area was not an attempt to avoid what was reality, but to pull into a quiet place and meditate in a sense. I found the score to the western, ‘Dances With Wolves’ and turned it up almost all the way. I could see my dad as a cowboy on the back of a strong horse riding into an old western town. I also played another instrumental called, ‘Once Upon a Time in the West’. To have had the music from ‘Field of Dreams’ would have been perfect.
One of my uncles managed to find me about ten minutes later and softly told me that it was probably a good idea that I go into dad’s room. His vital signs had really dipped again. I hopped up and headed back without a word. As I entered the room and moved to the side of the bed where I had spent most of my week, I could see that his skin looked a little pale. I held his limp hand and bent down to his face. I held there for a few seconds as my eyes filled with the tears of a lifetime of memories – some good, some tough; but all mine. I kissed his cheek for what I was sure would be the last time.
I stood up and grabbed dad’s hand with my left and clutched my aunt’s shoulder with my right. She leaned in and told her brother she loved him in a way that I will always hear. As she stepped back and grabbed my waist, an alarm on the monitor sounded. The top section which measures heart rate was flashing an ‘X’. The oxygen level section read, ‘0’. I asked my aunt what she did, thinking that she had bumped into the monitor. This was the first phase of denial for all of us as we checked his chest for his monitors and the connections of all the wires as his face faded from pale to ashen and his breathing slowly stopped. It was over. I checked the clock in the room as soon as I realized and accepted that my dad was gone. It was 11:21am.
The resident doctor came in and confirmed what we all knew. Even though we were honoring his wishes to die peacefully, we all wished inside that there was some mistake and that his breathing would pick back up. The young doctor told us he was sorry and offered us some time. My cousin asked him to remove the oxygen mask, which he did.
A minute later I retreated to my dark, isolated waiting room and sat in silence again. No music this time, just the ringing in my ears. As I closed my eyes the memories that I saw in a flash when I kissed my dad’s head, played like the coming attractions before a movie. It was 1972, 75, 81, 83, 86, 92, 95 and everything in between. I opened my eyes and it was still 2008. I didn’t cry this time. I just needed the silence and darkness for a while. In my quiet darkness it occurred to me how precious it was for me to escort from this life, one of the two people who welcomed me into it.
Earlier in the day I went with my brother, uncle and aunt to my father’s apartment to clean it out. That really felt out of order! Sorting through the belongings of someone and cleaning their home as if they’re already gone left me feeling strange.
My dad looked the best he has at any point over the last few weeks when we saw him yesterday evening at about 6:30pm. His hair was clean and combed nicely and his skin was soft and smooth. The bruises on his hands from the many IVs had faded and were almost gone. He was warm and actually looked cozy under his favorite blanket. Gifts from grandchildren and nephews and nieces were everywhere.
There were a couple baseballs signed by children who were struggling to make sense of what was going on. Their innocent faces and questions through this time have been beyond precious. Balancing eternity and death and the weight of it all takes time to penetrate their minds. It seemed confusing to some of them to see their parents and uncles and aunts struggling so mightily with their emotions.
The Nashville contingency of the family had made plans to head back home this morning. The original plan was for them to go by the hospital one more time before hitting the road. The left at about 8:30am, but decided to skip the visit and head east toward Tennessee. At a little after 9:30 a nurse from the ICU called to tell us that my dad’s vital signs were showing signs of early shutdown. His blood pressure dipped as did the oxygen level in his lungs. We were getting dressed to head into the hospital anyway, but this call kicked us into high gear. The Nashville contingency turned around on the interstate without exiting and headed back to the hospital too.
Fifteen minutes later my father’s doctor called from home. He shared the same information and suggested that today would probably be the day. Before we hung up, he said, “I may not see you again, but I wanted to thank you for your courage and the manner with which you interacted with me. I’ll honestly miss you.” I was so touched. I knew that we had developed a very nice working relationship and mutual understanding, but it seems that I had some impact on him too. Some of my family members were critical of his style and communication, but I know that he honored my dad as much as any of us. He gave him his best despite my father fighting him hard along the way – same as any of us. Above all, he restored dignity to my dad in his final days and hours. He made it so that we could spend some special time with him as he honored dad’s wishes. I may be alone in my family, but I will always be thankful to Dr. John Metcalf.
When we got to his room my dad still looked good. I rubbed his arm and squeezed his hand. His breaths had slowed to short and shallow. All the numbers on the monitors looked askew and out of place. Small numbers were where big numbers should be and alarms rang out off and on as if someone was leaning on the controls.
After a few minutes at my dad’s side, I felt the urge to get alone again. The noise of the competing voices and elevating volume levels was wearing on me in conjunction with everything else. I took off my gown and slipped out of the room. I found a small waiting area near the ICU waiting room. The lights were off and it was cool and empty. I sat down and pulled out my iPod again. I sat in the dark and played music that reminded me of my father. This move to the black waiting area was not an attempt to avoid what was reality, but to pull into a quiet place and meditate in a sense. I found the score to the western, ‘Dances With Wolves’ and turned it up almost all the way. I could see my dad as a cowboy on the back of a strong horse riding into an old western town. I also played another instrumental called, ‘Once Upon a Time in the West’. To have had the music from ‘Field of Dreams’ would have been perfect.
One of my uncles managed to find me about ten minutes later and softly told me that it was probably a good idea that I go into dad’s room. His vital signs had really dipped again. I hopped up and headed back without a word. As I entered the room and moved to the side of the bed where I had spent most of my week, I could see that his skin looked a little pale. I held his limp hand and bent down to his face. I held there for a few seconds as my eyes filled with the tears of a lifetime of memories – some good, some tough; but all mine. I kissed his cheek for what I was sure would be the last time.
I stood up and grabbed dad’s hand with my left and clutched my aunt’s shoulder with my right. She leaned in and told her brother she loved him in a way that I will always hear. As she stepped back and grabbed my waist, an alarm on the monitor sounded. The top section which measures heart rate was flashing an ‘X’. The oxygen level section read, ‘0’. I asked my aunt what she did, thinking that she had bumped into the monitor. This was the first phase of denial for all of us as we checked his chest for his monitors and the connections of all the wires as his face faded from pale to ashen and his breathing slowly stopped. It was over. I checked the clock in the room as soon as I realized and accepted that my dad was gone. It was 11:21am.
The resident doctor came in and confirmed what we all knew. Even though we were honoring his wishes to die peacefully, we all wished inside that there was some mistake and that his breathing would pick back up. The young doctor told us he was sorry and offered us some time. My cousin asked him to remove the oxygen mask, which he did.
A minute later I retreated to my dark, isolated waiting room and sat in silence again. No music this time, just the ringing in my ears. As I closed my eyes the memories that I saw in a flash when I kissed my dad’s head, played like the coming attractions before a movie. It was 1972, 75, 81, 83, 86, 92, 95 and everything in between. I opened my eyes and it was still 2008. I didn’t cry this time. I just needed the silence and darkness for a while. In my quiet darkness it occurred to me how precious it was for me to escort from this life, one of the two people who welcomed me into it.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wonder if He Was Born This Way (Update 6)
Over the last few days when the doctor has attempted to describe my dad’s personality and approach to his care, he seemed to get hung up, “this guy is a…” He’s done this several times. “Your father is such a…” He just lacked the words to articulate his thoughts.
We wake up this morning to the report from the ICU nursing staff that dad’s vital signs are strong and indicative of someone whose heart is strong despite his weakened state.
As his family is gathered standing vigil over his ‘death bed’ my dad is refusing to go on anyone else’s terms or timetable. We joked this morning that we should establish a pool or over/under line on when he leaves us. We can call it the ‘Emory Griffith Memorial Fund’.
Dad’s insistence to hang with us combined with his legendary attitude of defiance and angst supplies me with the word to finish the doctor’s thoughts - an endearing term that he would love. “This guy is a bastard!” My dad is one belligerent son of a bitch.
We wake up this morning to the report from the ICU nursing staff that dad’s vital signs are strong and indicative of someone whose heart is strong despite his weakened state.
As his family is gathered standing vigil over his ‘death bed’ my dad is refusing to go on anyone else’s terms or timetable. We joked this morning that we should establish a pool or over/under line on when he leaves us. We can call it the ‘Emory Griffith Memorial Fund’.
Dad’s insistence to hang with us combined with his legendary attitude of defiance and angst supplies me with the word to finish the doctor’s thoughts - an endearing term that he would love. “This guy is a bastard!” My dad is one belligerent son of a bitch.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thank You For Smoking (Update 5)
It’s Friday, nearly midnight and we have just returned from an entire day at the hospital that began with the same sort of visit with dad that has become a routine over the last few days. He appeared more sedated and agitated than he had in the days prior. His eyes remained closed for most of the time I spent with him in the morning.
I should go back to the beginning of the day. As I sit at the end of it, I am realizing how I spent nearly the entire day avoiding. Avoiding facing the reality of the day as I woke up, avoiding going into my dad’s room initially, and avoiding the emotion that was natural and critical to navigating through something like this. Midway through the day, I caught myself doing this and instead of changing course and drawing near to the people with which I feel most connected and identified, I turned on my iPod and added a soundtrack to my seclusion.
Like it or not, this day started with the knowledge that this would be the day that we – as a family would remove the ventilator and allow my dad to die on his own terms. Of course these ‘terms’ go back generations in the planning since he is a lifelong smoker.
As we ate breakfast together and chatted about the sports page and gas prices we for the most part avoided the topic that dragged us out of bed in the first place. We all knew it and were well aware and in agreement that today would be the beginning of the end.
We met the doctor and the social worker in the same meeting room that I met them in a few days prior. This time we filled the room, all the chairs and were standing along the back wall. Sons, siblings, nieces and nephews, in-laws and spouses of every sort. My dad would be proud to know that his ‘sentencing hearing’ was standing room only.
The doctor started with his same wit and awkward style. While I had grown comfortable with it and him, and had developed a pretty good working relationship with him, the rest of the family seemed skeptical and guarded with him. He discussed the nuts and bolts and the chemistry and physiology involved with removing the ventilation tube from dad’s throat. We discussed everything from what sort of oxygen mask he would use to how much morphine would be appropriate to comfort levels. The theme quickly and clearly emerged. Our function – the doctor’s function was shifting to managing his comfort instead of managing his condition.
We had established 5:30pm as the transition time. The staff would prepare the machine needed as well as clean my father up. All the medications prescribed to treat the infections and heart issues and everything else that had begun failing him was also being stopped. The only medications that would be used going forward would be to treat his pain and discomfort and facilitate his comfort. As the meeting ended, we splintered in several directions. Some went to lunch while others returned to the waiting room for conversation and a good cry. I took off downstairs to the patio of the cafeteria. All I wanted at that moment was to be alone. I challenged why this would be during something like this with many of my favorite people around me, and all I could manage to assume was that I have just grown accustomed to handling everything on my own over the last couple years. Who knows? No matter what it was, I found little comfort in my isolation, but it’s all I was prepared to handle at the moment. There is an absence of emotional accountability to which I have grown dependent. It has been both depressing and comforting over the last couple years. Plans of growth and progress through dark times are hatched in it, but thoughts of immeasurable pain and suicide visit too.
I sat alone until 5:30pm and then walked into the hall in front of the ICU where most of the family had begun to gather again. I waited a respectful few minutes and walked back to the room. The doctor and nurses were finishing his preparation. Again I avoided site of my father and the happenings in the room. I could hear that the doctor was having a disagreement with one of the nurses about the name of one of the masks. When they were clearly finished, I went in where my brother and two cousins were already. Dad looked fresher; his hair was combed and his face had been wiped off. The external ventilator mask was large and cumbersome. My dad seemed to seizing and gasping for air as he breathed. While the large, intrusive tube was gone, it had been replaced by full view of his struggle to breathe through a clear oxygen mask. His mouth was open as he struggled to suck in every molecule of oxygen being pumped into the mask.
Every few seconds, he would grab into the air as if there were some life raft afloat in it. His hands then slammed into the bed’s surface and he grabbed a handful of bed sheets, pulling this into his chest. This transition was supposed to be painless and comforting. It looked awful and painful.
It seemed as though it would not be long now. This reality had finally caught up to me and bit firmly into my ass. After a short stint in the room with my father, I walked back into the hall and stood alone again. I had come to realize that getting too close to any one of the family members in my midst would certainly push me over the emotional edge, and I just didn’t want to do that. I had claimed my role as the ‘strong and practical’ one.
When my uncle (my dad’s older brother) came out a minute after me, he walked up to me and wrapped me in a huge hug and said, “I love you, brother.” Everything that I had built in defense of the emotions gave way in an instant. I grasped him close and sobbed into his chest. He held on as long as I needed him to. As held tighter, so did he. I was so happy he didn’t say anything in that moment. There was nothing to say. A cliché or Hallmark quote would have cheapened the authenticity of the moment. I needed exactly what he gave me.
For the next few hours we all sat vigil outside of the ICU, taking turns going into his room, rubbing his legs and holding his hands. As time passed and his vital signs remained stable, it became clear that dad was going to hang on through the nights. By 10:00pm we had all decided to go home for the night to sleep and refuel.
The prominent thought and emotion for me is that my dad is already gone. The doctor adjusted his medication to assist him with the clear discomfort he was feeling. The tradeoff is that it put him into what amounts to the deepest of deep sleeps. So no matter when he finally takes his last breath, my dad will never wake up and make eye contact with me again. I feel like I said goodbye today in the arms of his brother.
I should go back to the beginning of the day. As I sit at the end of it, I am realizing how I spent nearly the entire day avoiding. Avoiding facing the reality of the day as I woke up, avoiding going into my dad’s room initially, and avoiding the emotion that was natural and critical to navigating through something like this. Midway through the day, I caught myself doing this and instead of changing course and drawing near to the people with which I feel most connected and identified, I turned on my iPod and added a soundtrack to my seclusion.
Like it or not, this day started with the knowledge that this would be the day that we – as a family would remove the ventilator and allow my dad to die on his own terms. Of course these ‘terms’ go back generations in the planning since he is a lifelong smoker.
As we ate breakfast together and chatted about the sports page and gas prices we for the most part avoided the topic that dragged us out of bed in the first place. We all knew it and were well aware and in agreement that today would be the beginning of the end.
We met the doctor and the social worker in the same meeting room that I met them in a few days prior. This time we filled the room, all the chairs and were standing along the back wall. Sons, siblings, nieces and nephews, in-laws and spouses of every sort. My dad would be proud to know that his ‘sentencing hearing’ was standing room only.
The doctor started with his same wit and awkward style. While I had grown comfortable with it and him, and had developed a pretty good working relationship with him, the rest of the family seemed skeptical and guarded with him. He discussed the nuts and bolts and the chemistry and physiology involved with removing the ventilation tube from dad’s throat. We discussed everything from what sort of oxygen mask he would use to how much morphine would be appropriate to comfort levels. The theme quickly and clearly emerged. Our function – the doctor’s function was shifting to managing his comfort instead of managing his condition.
We had established 5:30pm as the transition time. The staff would prepare the machine needed as well as clean my father up. All the medications prescribed to treat the infections and heart issues and everything else that had begun failing him was also being stopped. The only medications that would be used going forward would be to treat his pain and discomfort and facilitate his comfort. As the meeting ended, we splintered in several directions. Some went to lunch while others returned to the waiting room for conversation and a good cry. I took off downstairs to the patio of the cafeteria. All I wanted at that moment was to be alone. I challenged why this would be during something like this with many of my favorite people around me, and all I could manage to assume was that I have just grown accustomed to handling everything on my own over the last couple years. Who knows? No matter what it was, I found little comfort in my isolation, but it’s all I was prepared to handle at the moment. There is an absence of emotional accountability to which I have grown dependent. It has been both depressing and comforting over the last couple years. Plans of growth and progress through dark times are hatched in it, but thoughts of immeasurable pain and suicide visit too.
I sat alone until 5:30pm and then walked into the hall in front of the ICU where most of the family had begun to gather again. I waited a respectful few minutes and walked back to the room. The doctor and nurses were finishing his preparation. Again I avoided site of my father and the happenings in the room. I could hear that the doctor was having a disagreement with one of the nurses about the name of one of the masks. When they were clearly finished, I went in where my brother and two cousins were already. Dad looked fresher; his hair was combed and his face had been wiped off. The external ventilator mask was large and cumbersome. My dad seemed to seizing and gasping for air as he breathed. While the large, intrusive tube was gone, it had been replaced by full view of his struggle to breathe through a clear oxygen mask. His mouth was open as he struggled to suck in every molecule of oxygen being pumped into the mask.
Every few seconds, he would grab into the air as if there were some life raft afloat in it. His hands then slammed into the bed’s surface and he grabbed a handful of bed sheets, pulling this into his chest. This transition was supposed to be painless and comforting. It looked awful and painful.
It seemed as though it would not be long now. This reality had finally caught up to me and bit firmly into my ass. After a short stint in the room with my father, I walked back into the hall and stood alone again. I had come to realize that getting too close to any one of the family members in my midst would certainly push me over the emotional edge, and I just didn’t want to do that. I had claimed my role as the ‘strong and practical’ one.
When my uncle (my dad’s older brother) came out a minute after me, he walked up to me and wrapped me in a huge hug and said, “I love you, brother.” Everything that I had built in defense of the emotions gave way in an instant. I grasped him close and sobbed into his chest. He held on as long as I needed him to. As held tighter, so did he. I was so happy he didn’t say anything in that moment. There was nothing to say. A cliché or Hallmark quote would have cheapened the authenticity of the moment. I needed exactly what he gave me.
For the next few hours we all sat vigil outside of the ICU, taking turns going into his room, rubbing his legs and holding his hands. As time passed and his vital signs remained stable, it became clear that dad was going to hang on through the nights. By 10:00pm we had all decided to go home for the night to sleep and refuel.
The prominent thought and emotion for me is that my dad is already gone. The doctor adjusted his medication to assist him with the clear discomfort he was feeling. The tradeoff is that it put him into what amounts to the deepest of deep sleeps. So no matter when he finally takes his last breath, my dad will never wake up and make eye contact with me again. I feel like I said goodbye today in the arms of his brother.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
"This?" (Update 4)
My aunt and I went back to the hospital this morning unsure of what to expect from my dad. Twenty-four hours earlier we were surprised to find a wide-eyed man ready to at least participate in determining what was or was not to be next in this journey. Later in the same day, that optimism was overtaken and saturated by the disappointment of his vacant stare. I had no idea which version of my dad we were going to get.
I purposely took extra time when dressing in the medical gown and gloves. I stared down or off into a non-specific distance, avoiding my peripheral. I did not want to glance into the room and catch a vision before I walked in fully and fully prepared for which version we were getting.
He was again propped up facing away from the entry to the room, and did not see us walk in. I took my spot facing him on the other side of the bed and clutched his hand tightly before I had even settled into a spot on the floor. Like yesterday, he looked up as if he was trying to place a vaguely familiar face. Again, it seemed to click who I was, but the excitement was muted this time. Instead he set out again to mouthing his specific and important orders, instructions, points or whatever else he was trying to say. Again, he gestured with his hands although they were bound to the sides of his bed to prevent him from grabbing at the monitors and tubes.
As he silently spoke to me, I nodded in confirmation despite not knowing to what I was agreeing. He made point after point and emphatically explained the position to which he was committed in his head. He started gesturing to something behind me. I moved to the side and looked in the direction to which he was pointing. There was only an empty electrical socket. It was red as if to indicate what could and could not be plugged in there. I gestured back toward the outlet and asked, “that? The outlet?” He nodded clearly and insistently. In and effort to confirm that I understood exactly what he was saying for the first time, I bent down and touched the outlet, “this?” Again he nodded in confirmation. He then gestured the hand signal widely accepted as the “stop it” or “enough!” signal.
My quest and prayer for clarity seemed to get an answer. Was he pointing to “the plug” and telling me to stop it? I didn’t have to mull this over very long. It seemed clear. It seems clear.
Avoiding what appeared obvious, I picked up a pad of paper and a pen. I put the pen in his left hand and placed the pad in front of him. He took to the paper with supreme purpose as if he would finally have his say. He slowly touched the pen to the paper and stalled paralyzed in the same spot. He couldn’t convince his hand to move in the ways needed to write anything at all much less communicate something.
On the same pad, I wrote two questions – one at a time. First I wrote, “do you know who I am?” The second question was, “do you know why you are here?” This time I was ready to settle for a nod or gesture of some sort. Nothing.
Tomorrow is the meeting with the family and the doctor to discuss what is next. I shared my father’s communication with the doctor who understood it more quickly and clearly than even I did, so we’re all going in with the same understanding and perception. We seem to be on the same page. I don’t want to understand what page that is, but it follows me around and into my dreams. I am now writing on and on in an effort to avoid closing my eyes and seeing that vacant look or his impassioned, inaudible orders. I am legitimately exhausted and discouraged.
I purposely took extra time when dressing in the medical gown and gloves. I stared down or off into a non-specific distance, avoiding my peripheral. I did not want to glance into the room and catch a vision before I walked in fully and fully prepared for which version we were getting.
He was again propped up facing away from the entry to the room, and did not see us walk in. I took my spot facing him on the other side of the bed and clutched his hand tightly before I had even settled into a spot on the floor. Like yesterday, he looked up as if he was trying to place a vaguely familiar face. Again, it seemed to click who I was, but the excitement was muted this time. Instead he set out again to mouthing his specific and important orders, instructions, points or whatever else he was trying to say. Again, he gestured with his hands although they were bound to the sides of his bed to prevent him from grabbing at the monitors and tubes.
As he silently spoke to me, I nodded in confirmation despite not knowing to what I was agreeing. He made point after point and emphatically explained the position to which he was committed in his head. He started gesturing to something behind me. I moved to the side and looked in the direction to which he was pointing. There was only an empty electrical socket. It was red as if to indicate what could and could not be plugged in there. I gestured back toward the outlet and asked, “that? The outlet?” He nodded clearly and insistently. In and effort to confirm that I understood exactly what he was saying for the first time, I bent down and touched the outlet, “this?” Again he nodded in confirmation. He then gestured the hand signal widely accepted as the “stop it” or “enough!” signal.
My quest and prayer for clarity seemed to get an answer. Was he pointing to “the plug” and telling me to stop it? I didn’t have to mull this over very long. It seemed clear. It seems clear.
Avoiding what appeared obvious, I picked up a pad of paper and a pen. I put the pen in his left hand and placed the pad in front of him. He took to the paper with supreme purpose as if he would finally have his say. He slowly touched the pen to the paper and stalled paralyzed in the same spot. He couldn’t convince his hand to move in the ways needed to write anything at all much less communicate something.
On the same pad, I wrote two questions – one at a time. First I wrote, “do you know who I am?” The second question was, “do you know why you are here?” This time I was ready to settle for a nod or gesture of some sort. Nothing.
Tomorrow is the meeting with the family and the doctor to discuss what is next. I shared my father’s communication with the doctor who understood it more quickly and clearly than even I did, so we’re all going in with the same understanding and perception. We seem to be on the same page. I don’t want to understand what page that is, but it follows me around and into my dreams. I am now writing on and on in an effort to avoid closing my eyes and seeing that vacant look or his impassioned, inaudible orders. I am legitimately exhausted and discouraged.
Wayne, Kennedy and The Duke (Update 3)
My father can be defined by a few simple things. He has a deep yet complicated love for his family. His love for all of us runs deep, and though it often appeared otherwise, it has always been unconditional. He is hopelessly and sweetly sentimental. His memory for family lore is legendary, both in how much he remembers and how much he just flat out makes up!
There were three other passions that my father has always held. As far back as I could remember his identity and imagination were tightly wrapped up in these very personal and passionate diversions.
He loved the old west. Stories of the west and the settling of the western United States and the colorful personalities at the center of the stories fascinated and energized him. He watched westerns on television and on the big screen. He loved Gary Cooper, Gene Autry and John Wayne and characters they portrayed. The first time he visited me in southern California, he made me take him to the statue of John Wayne in the center of our airport named in his honor.
He not only watched westerns, but he read historical accounts and novels based in the old west. But probably most surprising to many who even knew him well was that he also wrote about the old west. I can remember many times in my life where one of his distinctive yellow legal pads was filled with a cowboy tale about two friends and their adventure across the old west.
Shortly and often after moving to Oklahoma City my dad would speak enthusiastically about being so close to the historic Chisholm Trail. I am ashamed to say that I still do not know why it was important or historic. I’m sure he told me, but it never registered. I will now make it my mission to understand its role in the settling of this part of the country.
His second passion was American government; specifically politics. Though a strong and committed Democrat, my dad understood and explained history in a non-partisan, unbiased way. He never affixed blame to historical leaders or administrations when explaining it to me. He was content and in passionate favor of allowing me to draw my own conclusions from what I learned. Make no mistake though he was a true, blue fairly liberal Democrat. As he aged his heels dug deeper and deeper.
Although unbending and committed in his beliefs, he was never blinded beyond the point of being able to recognize and marvel at the beauty of our system. The American system of government and elections specifically is something that intrigued and amazed him more than it moved him. He was more than a voter or participant. He was a fan and observer – passionately in love with the American way.
But aside from his family, the love of my dad’s life has always been baseball. He is a knowledgeable and brilliant baseball fan and historian. His understanding of the game and its technical quirks and beauty is quite simply unmatched by anyone I have ever known. I can’t say that word emphatically enough – ANYONE. I am certain that his ability to maneuver and think through strategy is greater than many current major league managers.
His team was without question the Dodgers. From Brooklyn to Los Angeles he followed his Dodgers from April to October every year, content with falling just short seemingly year after year. The only book I ever saw him read multiple times was Roger Kahn’s, “Boys of Summer”, chronicling the 1955 Dodgers who finally broke through and won a world series after years of losing to the cross-town Yankees. I think he felt a kinship with this team. They were guys he wanted to be like and wanted to be with. Duke Snyder, Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Roy Campinella; the original boys of summer. They were all-American and a classic American underdog. My father saw his identity in them and claimed them as his own.
There were three other passions that my father has always held. As far back as I could remember his identity and imagination were tightly wrapped up in these very personal and passionate diversions.
He loved the old west. Stories of the west and the settling of the western United States and the colorful personalities at the center of the stories fascinated and energized him. He watched westerns on television and on the big screen. He loved Gary Cooper, Gene Autry and John Wayne and characters they portrayed. The first time he visited me in southern California, he made me take him to the statue of John Wayne in the center of our airport named in his honor.
He not only watched westerns, but he read historical accounts and novels based in the old west. But probably most surprising to many who even knew him well was that he also wrote about the old west. I can remember many times in my life where one of his distinctive yellow legal pads was filled with a cowboy tale about two friends and their adventure across the old west.
Shortly and often after moving to Oklahoma City my dad would speak enthusiastically about being so close to the historic Chisholm Trail. I am ashamed to say that I still do not know why it was important or historic. I’m sure he told me, but it never registered. I will now make it my mission to understand its role in the settling of this part of the country.
His second passion was American government; specifically politics. Though a strong and committed Democrat, my dad understood and explained history in a non-partisan, unbiased way. He never affixed blame to historical leaders or administrations when explaining it to me. He was content and in passionate favor of allowing me to draw my own conclusions from what I learned. Make no mistake though he was a true, blue fairly liberal Democrat. As he aged his heels dug deeper and deeper.
Although unbending and committed in his beliefs, he was never blinded beyond the point of being able to recognize and marvel at the beauty of our system. The American system of government and elections specifically is something that intrigued and amazed him more than it moved him. He was more than a voter or participant. He was a fan and observer – passionately in love with the American way.
But aside from his family, the love of my dad’s life has always been baseball. He is a knowledgeable and brilliant baseball fan and historian. His understanding of the game and its technical quirks and beauty is quite simply unmatched by anyone I have ever known. I can’t say that word emphatically enough – ANYONE. I am certain that his ability to maneuver and think through strategy is greater than many current major league managers.
His team was without question the Dodgers. From Brooklyn to Los Angeles he followed his Dodgers from April to October every year, content with falling just short seemingly year after year. The only book I ever saw him read multiple times was Roger Kahn’s, “Boys of Summer”, chronicling the 1955 Dodgers who finally broke through and won a world series after years of losing to the cross-town Yankees. I think he felt a kinship with this team. They were guys he wanted to be like and wanted to be with. Duke Snyder, Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Roy Campinella; the original boys of summer. They were all-American and a classic American underdog. My father saw his identity in them and claimed them as his own.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Oh What a Ride! (Update 2)
“You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster… Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride! I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.” – Grandma (from the 1989 film, ‘Parenthood’)
I slept terribly last night. I woke up at 8am, which was 6am on my internal clock. Immediately my mind was absorbed in the nervous anticipation of what the day would hold. The idea of seeing my dad for the first time, on his back and incoherent in the ICU of a VA hospital was not settling easily on my mind.
I was expecting the worst. Over the last six weeks, my father had spent less than twenty-four collective hours not sedated into a fog. Breathing tubes made speaking or any other verbal communication impossible. Being heavily sedated seems like the only logical way to be.
The warranted press that VA hospitals have been given in this country had prepared me for almost anything from the hospital facility itself. As we drove up I was pleasantly surprised by the outer appearance of the building. It is a red brick building that fits nicely in the company of the adgacent Children’s Hospital and the Oklahoma University Medical Center. As we walked through the parking lot and into the entry, veterans milled about. On the sidewalk outside the main entrance a Vietnam-era amputee sat in a wheelchair with a friend smoking a cigarette together.
On the main floor, on the way to the elevator, we passed a line and lobby-full of veterans waiting on bulging lines for prescriptions to be filled. I was struck by how so many of these guys fit the Vietnam vet stereotype – ponytail, tattoos and baseball caps labeled with unit and squadron.
As pleasant as the facility truly seemed to be in comparison to disgraceful places like Walter Reed Hospital and others, it was clear that the system and its broken processes continue to fail these men (mostly) who gave nearly everything in the service of their country in our first meaningless, worthless, pitiful and criminal war. As companies like Haliburton and Blackwater and their pathetic boards grow rich wading in the blood of dead and wounded young men and women, boys and girls; we sent them home to stand in lines that last hours for pills to manage pain caused by injuries acquired in "defense of their country". Writer, Jean-Paul Sartre said, “when the rich wage war, it's the poor who die.” The ones who don’t die are left a sorry fate back home. Sorry! I swore I wouldn’t do that!
Upstairs as I approached the room my heart raced. I wondered how he would look. We had to put on a coverall and surgical gloves before entering the room. As I dressed, I gazed in and could see that my dad’s eyes were open. They seemed to be fluttering, and he fidgeted in his bed. He laid leaning to his left side, away from the door, so he did not see me enter his room. I walked to the opposite side of the bed so that he could see me clearly. He looked up at me and his eyes widened. They were huge and powder white. The look he gave me was something akin to. “who the hell are you?!” Clearly he did not recognize me. Then, after about ten seconds, the image of me made its way through the fog and haze of the lingering medication and sedative. Suddenly the look on his face melted into a mix of excitement and emotional joy. This look was one of, “thank God! My son is finally here!”
I held his left hand and talked to him. I struggled with what to say. “Howya, doin?” just didn’t seem appropriate or even mildly funny. He began to try to speak to me. The mass of tubes and hoses in his mouth eliminates any possibility of audible communication. Yet he struggled to communicate something to me that he clearly felt was paramount. His eyes accentuated his point, but didn’t help at all in establishing what that point was. I feel certain that whatever he was trying to say to me, it started with, “listen to me! Please…” What is next is the mystery. Is it, “get these tubes out of my throat and let me die with some dignity!” or “don’t leave me! Don’t let me die!”
His doctor took my aunt and me into a conference room and spent about thirty minutes answering all of the questions I have had in queue for all of the last six weeks. He explained in careful and respectful detail, diagramming the chemistry and physiology on a dry erase board.
The bottom line and his dilemma is drawing my father into the discussion of what his short term fate will be. There has been little progress in the time that he has been in the hospital, and any at all has been followed by multiple significant steps back. The doctor wants to know what my father wants. He wants him in on this cruel and enormous decision. He wants to hear it with his own ears, or at least through our ears – his children, brother, sister, nieces and nephews.
My dad has indicated in writing that he does not want to be kept alive by a ventilator. This seems like clear and concise direction. Acting on such instructions with no audible voice to go with it and eyes as alive as mine is a confusing and intimidating dichotomy. His confirmation – any confirmation is all I desire right now.
My aunt said that she had not seen him as alert as he was this morning. He remained wide-eyed for the entire time that we were with him. As we left, we assured him that we would be back later in the day.
As we walked back into his room this evening, just after six thirty, his doctor stopped us and told us that my father had just been violently agitated again and seemed to be attempting to pull the tubes out of his arms and throat. This has been his pattern when he has come out of his sedated periods. The question remains and only frames itself differently; is he saying to “get these tubes out of me so I can die”, or is he saying, “this stuff is hurting me!”?
As a result of his tirade, the new wave of anti-anxiety medication they had started were ratcheted up to “industrial levels”. The man I saw when I walked back into the room was the man I expected to see this morning before I was so pleasnantly surprised. The only word that came to mind, no matter how I tried to rephrase it in my mind was, vacant. His eyes were open, but very little was there. Whatever was there this morning was now sealed tight behind a metal door of medication.
Before he left us to go on his last rounds of the day, the doctor stepped to me and said, “you know, the more I think about where we are and how things are, I just don’t think he’s going to be able to play a part in this decision.” This was the clarity I had been asking for, just not the answer I was hoping for.
Which version of my dad will we get on Thursday? Family reinforcements arrive in the afternoon. After just one day, I’ll need it. While I love roller coasters, this is not the type I enjoy.
I slept terribly last night. I woke up at 8am, which was 6am on my internal clock. Immediately my mind was absorbed in the nervous anticipation of what the day would hold. The idea of seeing my dad for the first time, on his back and incoherent in the ICU of a VA hospital was not settling easily on my mind.
I was expecting the worst. Over the last six weeks, my father had spent less than twenty-four collective hours not sedated into a fog. Breathing tubes made speaking or any other verbal communication impossible. Being heavily sedated seems like the only logical way to be.
The warranted press that VA hospitals have been given in this country had prepared me for almost anything from the hospital facility itself. As we drove up I was pleasantly surprised by the outer appearance of the building. It is a red brick building that fits nicely in the company of the adgacent Children’s Hospital and the Oklahoma University Medical Center. As we walked through the parking lot and into the entry, veterans milled about. On the sidewalk outside the main entrance a Vietnam-era amputee sat in a wheelchair with a friend smoking a cigarette together.
On the main floor, on the way to the elevator, we passed a line and lobby-full of veterans waiting on bulging lines for prescriptions to be filled. I was struck by how so many of these guys fit the Vietnam vet stereotype – ponytail, tattoos and baseball caps labeled with unit and squadron.
As pleasant as the facility truly seemed to be in comparison to disgraceful places like Walter Reed Hospital and others, it was clear that the system and its broken processes continue to fail these men (mostly) who gave nearly everything in the service of their country in our first meaningless, worthless, pitiful and criminal war. As companies like Haliburton and Blackwater and their pathetic boards grow rich wading in the blood of dead and wounded young men and women, boys and girls; we sent them home to stand in lines that last hours for pills to manage pain caused by injuries acquired in "defense of their country". Writer, Jean-Paul Sartre said, “when the rich wage war, it's the poor who die.” The ones who don’t die are left a sorry fate back home. Sorry! I swore I wouldn’t do that!
Upstairs as I approached the room my heart raced. I wondered how he would look. We had to put on a coverall and surgical gloves before entering the room. As I dressed, I gazed in and could see that my dad’s eyes were open. They seemed to be fluttering, and he fidgeted in his bed. He laid leaning to his left side, away from the door, so he did not see me enter his room. I walked to the opposite side of the bed so that he could see me clearly. He looked up at me and his eyes widened. They were huge and powder white. The look he gave me was something akin to. “who the hell are you?!” Clearly he did not recognize me. Then, after about ten seconds, the image of me made its way through the fog and haze of the lingering medication and sedative. Suddenly the look on his face melted into a mix of excitement and emotional joy. This look was one of, “thank God! My son is finally here!”
I held his left hand and talked to him. I struggled with what to say. “Howya, doin?” just didn’t seem appropriate or even mildly funny. He began to try to speak to me. The mass of tubes and hoses in his mouth eliminates any possibility of audible communication. Yet he struggled to communicate something to me that he clearly felt was paramount. His eyes accentuated his point, but didn’t help at all in establishing what that point was. I feel certain that whatever he was trying to say to me, it started with, “listen to me! Please…” What is next is the mystery. Is it, “get these tubes out of my throat and let me die with some dignity!” or “don’t leave me! Don’t let me die!”
His doctor took my aunt and me into a conference room and spent about thirty minutes answering all of the questions I have had in queue for all of the last six weeks. He explained in careful and respectful detail, diagramming the chemistry and physiology on a dry erase board.
The bottom line and his dilemma is drawing my father into the discussion of what his short term fate will be. There has been little progress in the time that he has been in the hospital, and any at all has been followed by multiple significant steps back. The doctor wants to know what my father wants. He wants him in on this cruel and enormous decision. He wants to hear it with his own ears, or at least through our ears – his children, brother, sister, nieces and nephews.
My dad has indicated in writing that he does not want to be kept alive by a ventilator. This seems like clear and concise direction. Acting on such instructions with no audible voice to go with it and eyes as alive as mine is a confusing and intimidating dichotomy. His confirmation – any confirmation is all I desire right now.
My aunt said that she had not seen him as alert as he was this morning. He remained wide-eyed for the entire time that we were with him. As we left, we assured him that we would be back later in the day.
As we walked back into his room this evening, just after six thirty, his doctor stopped us and told us that my father had just been violently agitated again and seemed to be attempting to pull the tubes out of his arms and throat. This has been his pattern when he has come out of his sedated periods. The question remains and only frames itself differently; is he saying to “get these tubes out of me so I can die”, or is he saying, “this stuff is hurting me!”?
As a result of his tirade, the new wave of anti-anxiety medication they had started were ratcheted up to “industrial levels”. The man I saw when I walked back into the room was the man I expected to see this morning before I was so pleasnantly surprised. The only word that came to mind, no matter how I tried to rephrase it in my mind was, vacant. His eyes were open, but very little was there. Whatever was there this morning was now sealed tight behind a metal door of medication.
Before he left us to go on his last rounds of the day, the doctor stepped to me and said, “you know, the more I think about where we are and how things are, I just don’t think he’s going to be able to play a part in this decision.” This was the clarity I had been asking for, just not the answer I was hoping for.
Which version of my dad will we get on Thursday? Family reinforcements arrive in the afternoon. After just one day, I’ll need it. While I love roller coasters, this is not the type I enjoy.
A Journey of Closure Begins (Update 1)
As many of you know, my father is gravely ill. He has what can only be described as "multiple lung and heart disorders." I have set out to see him for what will no doubt be the last time.
I have decided to take a pause from the campaign news and analysis to chronicle this trip. It seems like a good forum to work through this time and to keep anyone interested plugged in.
TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 2008
As I write this, I am sitting at John Wayne Airport in Orange County with what I fear might be a nearly worthless stand-by ticket in my jacket pocket attempting to board a flight to Oklahoma City where my father is as close to death as he has ever been. He’s been in the hospital for nearly six weeks with various lung and heart ailments; all of which can be directly attributed to a lifetime of at least a pack a day smoking.
His condition seems to have been deteriorating since the day that he checked in to the VA hospital. No matter the procedure or medicine administered, he has slipped backward as if he were scaling a muddy hill in a driving rain.
Certainly this day in time comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my dad, or any life-long smoker for that matter. The clichés of how cigarettes take a minute or three off your life suddenly seem significant and profound. Indeed, my father has not had a meaningful minute of life in more than a month, as most of his time in the hospital has been unconscious and incoherent; oblivious to the world around him and his condition.
The idea of my dad not living beyond this visit is one that I cannot for probably many reasons wrap my mind around. Though always vulnerable and fragile from a health standpoint, our parents just seem invincible to us. The natural cycle of our parents dying ahead of us is certainly honored, but it just doesn’t feel right either.
My life has in a sense flashed before my eyes in sharp, fleeting visions of my past. Moments and memories with my father; times where he endeared himself to the positive corners of my life slip into my mind’s eye as if to say, “remember this?”
For all of his faults and imperfections, I have almost no bad memories of my dad. While there certainly were times and events I would rather forget, most of what is flooding my memory banks as I sit in this sterile place is fond and positive. Even if I try to recall times where I wanted to strangle him out of frustration, my brain – or perhaps my heart steers me back to sweeter times. I am thankful for this.
It has to be said that my dad has been one of the most agitating and aggravating people in the life of nearly everyone who has ever known him. He is stubborn and opinionated and takes joy in pushing the buttons of those who have buttons to push. He loves to argue and usually takes not only an opposing position, but a radically opposing position. This bothers me less than it does some of my family members. I recognized long ago that the best way to defuse this game of his is to not allow yourself to get worked up. He gave up on getting me worked up years back.
It is this image of him that makes the idea of him so close to death unimaginable. As an aging, sick man my dad is still metaphorically a scrappy kid in the school yard who takes on fights with guys much bigger and tougher. This is fitting since this is essentially who he was in his younger days. While most of those fights were harmless and for sport, some of those fights cost him dearly it seems. The fight in which he is currently engaged is certainly one of those.
I have a feeling that if heaven is a real place (I hope it is) that our idea of what it is actually like is way off. I frequently wonder which version of ‘us’ is inducted in or welcomed in, or whatever happens. Is it us at our physical best? Is it the ‘us’ that God intended had we avoided stress, alcohol and drive-thru windows? Did my grandfather go into heaven as a young, healthy twenty-three your-old guy or the grandfather with a belly and white, balding hair that I prefer? When I see him in heaven, I want that version – the 1981 version, complete with that grandpa smell, dentures and hair coming from his ears.
So which version of my dad will slip into the afterlife? I’ve spent a lot of time on this question. It is this that dominates my questions of God over the last few days. I’m not even sure which version I would choose. He seems to have lived a life never completely unencumbered by some sort of stress or dilemma. Trouble seemed to follow my father, and when it wasn’t, he was tempting it and taunting it like that pesky undersized kid in the schoolyard, itching for a fight.
My father’s high moments in his life always seemed to be followed by a fall. He would seemingly find momentary peace and satisfaction only to slip on a banana peel he never saw coming. Though I never thought of him as a classic optimist, he sadly always seemed to buy into the longevity of the fortune he occasionally found.
I dwell here, on his struggles because it bogs me down in settling in on the version of my dad that would go into heaven. If we go in at our best, I would assume that would be around the time he married my mother in 1967. But if I were to settle on my favorite version of my father, I’m not sure what era of his life I would choose. A composite of all of his happy times seems to be a reasonable compromise.
My dad was happiest and most at home in the dugout of a baseball field. He was at home and in his element managing a baseball team of young men not quite good enough to make it big, but not quite ready to call it quits. In a sad sense, this describes my father. He is a brilliant man with an amazing capacity for history and numbers. He understands probability and ratio, statistics and trends.
He has a boyish charm to him. He connects with young men as well as older men. He morphed between coach and father figure and student and son. Though it rarely appeared clear, he was respectful of age and experience. He deferred to his elders and often nodded in agreement no matter how inane their points.
After not making it on to the first flight, I got the last seat in the last row on the second flight. The inbound flight was about forty-five minutes late, delaying our departure for Denver. By the time we arrived, we were over an hour late. My connection to Oklahoma City was scheduled to depart at 9:26pm. As I stepped off the jetway in Denver, the clock on my cell phone read, ‘9:27pm’. Mentally prepared to spend the night in the concourse, I checked the monitor on my way to what would have been my gate. Flight 1202 to Oklahoma City showed a status of ‘flight delayed’. I got to the gate and gave my name and was issued my seat – in row one.
His condition seems to have been deteriorating since the day that he checked in to the VA hospital. No matter the procedure or medicine administered, he has slipped backward as if he were scaling a muddy hill in a driving rain.
Certainly this day in time comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my dad, or any life-long smoker for that matter. The clichés of how cigarettes take a minute or three off your life suddenly seem significant and profound. Indeed, my father has not had a meaningful minute of life in more than a month, as most of his time in the hospital has been unconscious and incoherent; oblivious to the world around him and his condition.
The idea of my dad not living beyond this visit is one that I cannot for probably many reasons wrap my mind around. Though always vulnerable and fragile from a health standpoint, our parents just seem invincible to us. The natural cycle of our parents dying ahead of us is certainly honored, but it just doesn’t feel right either.
My life has in a sense flashed before my eyes in sharp, fleeting visions of my past. Moments and memories with my father; times where he endeared himself to the positive corners of my life slip into my mind’s eye as if to say, “remember this?”
For all of his faults and imperfections, I have almost no bad memories of my dad. While there certainly were times and events I would rather forget, most of what is flooding my memory banks as I sit in this sterile place is fond and positive. Even if I try to recall times where I wanted to strangle him out of frustration, my brain – or perhaps my heart steers me back to sweeter times. I am thankful for this.
It has to be said that my dad has been one of the most agitating and aggravating people in the life of nearly everyone who has ever known him. He is stubborn and opinionated and takes joy in pushing the buttons of those who have buttons to push. He loves to argue and usually takes not only an opposing position, but a radically opposing position. This bothers me less than it does some of my family members. I recognized long ago that the best way to defuse this game of his is to not allow yourself to get worked up. He gave up on getting me worked up years back.
It is this image of him that makes the idea of him so close to death unimaginable. As an aging, sick man my dad is still metaphorically a scrappy kid in the school yard who takes on fights with guys much bigger and tougher. This is fitting since this is essentially who he was in his younger days. While most of those fights were harmless and for sport, some of those fights cost him dearly it seems. The fight in which he is currently engaged is certainly one of those.
I have a feeling that if heaven is a real place (I hope it is) that our idea of what it is actually like is way off. I frequently wonder which version of ‘us’ is inducted in or welcomed in, or whatever happens. Is it us at our physical best? Is it the ‘us’ that God intended had we avoided stress, alcohol and drive-thru windows? Did my grandfather go into heaven as a young, healthy twenty-three your-old guy or the grandfather with a belly and white, balding hair that I prefer? When I see him in heaven, I want that version – the 1981 version, complete with that grandpa smell, dentures and hair coming from his ears.
So which version of my dad will slip into the afterlife? I’ve spent a lot of time on this question. It is this that dominates my questions of God over the last few days. I’m not even sure which version I would choose. He seems to have lived a life never completely unencumbered by some sort of stress or dilemma. Trouble seemed to follow my father, and when it wasn’t, he was tempting it and taunting it like that pesky undersized kid in the schoolyard, itching for a fight.
My father’s high moments in his life always seemed to be followed by a fall. He would seemingly find momentary peace and satisfaction only to slip on a banana peel he never saw coming. Though I never thought of him as a classic optimist, he sadly always seemed to buy into the longevity of the fortune he occasionally found.
I dwell here, on his struggles because it bogs me down in settling in on the version of my dad that would go into heaven. If we go in at our best, I would assume that would be around the time he married my mother in 1967. But if I were to settle on my favorite version of my father, I’m not sure what era of his life I would choose. A composite of all of his happy times seems to be a reasonable compromise.
My dad was happiest and most at home in the dugout of a baseball field. He was at home and in his element managing a baseball team of young men not quite good enough to make it big, but not quite ready to call it quits. In a sad sense, this describes my father. He is a brilliant man with an amazing capacity for history and numbers. He understands probability and ratio, statistics and trends.
He has a boyish charm to him. He connects with young men as well as older men. He morphed between coach and father figure and student and son. Though it rarely appeared clear, he was respectful of age and experience. He deferred to his elders and often nodded in agreement no matter how inane their points.
After not making it on to the first flight, I got the last seat in the last row on the second flight. The inbound flight was about forty-five minutes late, delaying our departure for Denver. By the time we arrived, we were over an hour late. My connection to Oklahoma City was scheduled to depart at 9:26pm. As I stepped off the jetway in Denver, the clock on my cell phone read, ‘9:27pm’. Mentally prepared to spend the night in the concourse, I checked the monitor on my way to what would have been my gate. Flight 1202 to Oklahoma City showed a status of ‘flight delayed’. I got to the gate and gave my name and was issued my seat – in row one.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Dobson Takes Aim on Obama's Faith
Focus on the Family founder, James Dobson has begun what will no doubt be a calculated effort to attack and discredit the Senator's Christian faith and understanding and interpretation of the Bible.
Dobson went on to also say that Obama has a "fruitcake interpretation" of the Constitution.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Race Issue Still Real For 3 in 10 Americans
A Washington Post - ABC News poll revealed this week that three in ten Americans admit to have a bias with regard to race when voting.
White voters have been a difficult demographic for Democrats in the last two general elections; losing the white vote by 12 points in 2000 and 17 points in 2004.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Underfunded '527s' Wait in the Shadows
From The New York Times:
Obama: Attack Ads Failing System
Barack Obama defended his decision to opt out of the public campaigning system by highlighting the destructive and devisive attack ads funded by fringe groups known as 527s.
McCain Pushing NAFTA in Campaign Stop in Ottawa
John McCain was defending touting the benefits of the North American Free Trade Agreement Friday in Ottawa. McCain took on what he called Barak Obama's “completely mystifying shift” on the contraversial trade pact.
When an aid interrupted the Republican nominee whispering in his ear that campaign staff had confirmed that no electoral votes were at stake in Ottawa, Senator McCain ended his speech and promptly left town.
Fun With The Factor
If you're like us, you watch The O'Reilly Factor at least once a day. But sometimes, things get in the way like...watching almost anything else on television. So here's The Factor for Tuesday June 17, condensed to one minute.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Tim Russert Dies at 58
Brown's Hillary Bio Saved by Primary Loss
Princess Diana biographer, Tina Brown discussed all things Hillary on this morning's 'The View'. She was coy about what her forthcoming Clinton biography might include, but acknowledged that Clinton's loss in the Democratic primary probably helped expedite the book's release date.
Olbermann: McCain Should Know Better
Keith Olbermann provided John McCain with the perspective he said he was slighted over his comment that "it's not too important" when US troops come home from Iraq on Wednesday's 'Today Show'.
McCain For President - Brought to you by Fox News
Like Budweiser is to Rolling Stones tours and Gatorade is to the NBA playoffs, Fox News seems to have signed on as the official network of the John McCain campaign.
Nothing new here, other than there seems to be little or no effort to disguise their broadcasting and stocking of the audience like a koy pond.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Target: Michelle
The GOP attack dogs have been called off the bench just in time for the kickoff of the general campaign. John McCain strategists have all but publicly proclaimed their intentions to put Michelle Obama in their cross hairs.Fox News apparently got the memo and went right to work Wednesday, referring to Mrs. Obama as "Obama's Baby Mama" on the air. There is no truth to the rumors that the Obama camp countered by calling McCain, "My Baby's Great Grand Daddy" on MSNBC.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
